The Sweetest Morsel
by snapslikethis
Summary: Sirius, Peter and Remus work hard at exact revenge on their best mate. Do they know him well enough to pull it off?


Based on a tumblr post: but all the marauders have a 'fuck with james' day

"Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell." –Walter Scott (just the sort of poetic, melodramatic fuckery the Marauders would swoon over)

Thanks to Kristina and Jayne for whipping this (and me) into shape, to Ayesha, for teaching me a new pun, and to Adriana for a great code name.

#

"Moony?"

"Forty something."

" _Moony_."

"Dammit _,_ Padfoot _._ "

"Dammit, _both_ of you," snaps a scowling Peter, "I'm trying to concentrate." Squinting at a piece of parchment Spellotaped to the mirror, he lectures, "Sirius, we've got plenty of time, so calm your tits. And Remus, you bloody well know he won't let up 'till you tell him, so get on with it." He grabs the parchment, rotating it ninety degrees before sticking it back on the mirror, and then begins a third attempt to knot his tie.

"Fine." Remus, standing before his night stand, drops his own tie, puts his hands up in surrender. Examining his silver watch, he calls out the time—rather, the time they have left. "Forty-two minutes, fifty-one seconds. Satisfied?"

"No," says Sirius. " _Fuck_."

"If you're so worried about our schedule, Padfoot, get back to the list and let Moony be."

Sirius scowls at the back of Peter's head, just visible from the bathroom, as he plops back down on his own unmade bed. He returns to Remus's History of Magic, page 285 to find that the Revealing charm has worn off. He mutters the passphrase and watches, bored, as the macabre text detailing the Ukrainian Ironbelly Disaster of 1678 Transfigures into their to-do list. "Moony, if I haven't said it before, 'Fuck with Prongs' is a terriblename for the operation."

Remus flashes Sirius an incredulous glance. "Operation Jackrabbit. Peeve Peeves," he says, ticking off a finger as he recalls each of Sirius's worst code names. "Slither into Slytherin!"

"We were _twelve_."

"The Hopping Pots! Stormier Urn Carps!"

"An anagram."

"Operation Snuffalumps."

"That," says Sirius, rising to his feet, "was fucking _brilliant_ , Lupin, don't you deny it."

Remus snorts. "Dream up the next brilliant idea, Black, and thenyou can torture us with the next terrible code name, yeah?"

Peter cuts off next Sirius's glib retort with another reminder about the list, and Sirius rewards him with a rude hand gesture.

"Saw that," he says to Sirius's reflection.

Sirius ignores him, picking up where he left off—item seventeen. "Right. Belts?"

Remus looks down at his trousers. "Check."

"Wormy?"

"You can see it on my bed, Padfoot."

"Wormy?"

"Don't be an arse, Black."

"Protocol, Wormy."

"You being an arse? It's _four_ feet away from you."

Remus smirks. "Wormtail, you bloody well know he won't let up until you tell him, so get on with it already."

Well aware that he had delivered the same line not five minutes earlier, Peter bites back his retort, settling for, "Check. _Pricks_."

"And check." Sirius ticks off a third check mark next to line seventeen. "Shoes?"

"Check."

"Check."

Sirius casts a dubious glance at the trainers on his bed. "And check. _Unfortunately_." He scans the list. "Gents, how're your ties coming along?

"Done!" Remus throws a triumphant fist in the air. "Damn thing took twenty minutes."

" _I_ finished in thirteen," says Sirius.

"Mine's better."

Sirius scrutinizes Lupin's knot. Impeccable. "Damn it."

Remus opens his mouth to gloat when Peter diverts their attention with a long string of expletives hurled at the bathroom mirror. They watch as he tears down the parchment, balling it in his fist.

"Impressive, Wormtail," says Sirius, nodding his approval. "Is it knot coming along?" While Sirius chuckles, self-satisfied at his cleverness, Peter chucks the parchment into the rubbish bin. It misses, and he kicks the bin in frustration.

"'Not your fault Prongs prefers such an elaborate knot, Wormtail," consoles Remus. "Black's is barely passable."

He jumps to side-step Sirius's retaliatory kick as he makes his way toward Peter in the bathroom.

"It's a bloody catastrophe!"

"Prongs's hair is a catastrophe," assures Remus. "Lift up, and let me see." Peter lifts his chin so Remus can assess the damage. "'Not bad," says Remus, the crease in his brow betraying his lie. He retrieves the parchment and, after flattening it against his thigh, points to the sketch Sirius had made detailing James's favorite knot. "Yes… You went wrong here…the skinny end goes in front. See?"

Peter balks. "But that's just _wrong_."

"Agreed," says Sirius. As neither boy heard his approach, they look up in surprise to find him lounging against the door frame, arms crossed, watching them, bemused. "Prongs's taste is rubbish, Wormy, ergo, our taste must be rubbish. We're going to do this thing properly—"

"—or not at all. I bloody _know_." Peter's gaze shifts from the diagram to his mangled tie and back again. "I can't make this"—he points to his tie—"match _that_ "—and to the sketch. He looks to Remus. "Moony?"

Though the furrow in Remus's brow deepens, he steps forward, beginning the slow, delicate task of untangling the knotted silk without strangling its owner.

"Can you fix it quickly?" asks a smirking Sirius.

Remus drops the tie to flash Sirius a respectable middle finger. "Calm down, Sirius.. Get back to your list."

#

"Wormtail—glasses?"

Peter shakes his head best he can manage with the skinny end of his tie pulled taut between Remus's teeth. Remus, unable to speak, nods toward his bed and Sirius, interpreting the gesture as 'trunk,' lips the lid open with his foot.

Sirius lasts precisely twenty-seven seconds before abandoning his half-hearted search. Wiping his forehead in mock exhaustion, he says, "Care to be more specific, mate? Bloody toxic, _that_."

Remus tugs the tie from his mouth. "Still better than yours, _mate_. And inside my left trainer."

Peter and Sirius exchange a horrified glance from across the room before turning to Remus, who meets their identical stricken expressions with confusion. "What? It was brilliant—he'd never look there."

"'Course he wouldn't, _Mister Brilliance_ ," scolds Sirius as he fishes Remus's trainer from the depths of the trunk, "'cause your shoes smell like arse." He holds the battered shoe at arm's length, its frayed laces pinched between his fingers. "Not sure what your standards are, gents, but _I_ don't particularly fancy my face smelling like arse all day, fuck you very much."

"My shoes do not smell like arse, _arse_ ," replies Remus, looking to Peter for assurance.

Peter, who can't return his gaze: "That _is_ why we make you keep 'em in your trunk, Moony." H's decent enough to feign sheepishness, for Remus's sake.

" _No_."

"Yes!" says Sirius loudly, though it's distorted on account of the Bubble-Head Charm he's just cast on himself.

"Don't be a prick, Padfoot," says Remus.

Sirius laughs, and Remus looks over Peter's shoulder to glare daggers at him. "You _are_ aware, Sirius, that I can orchestrate a 'Fuck with Sirius Day' just as easily as I did for Prongs?"

Where a reasonable man would blanch at the deadly calm in Remus's voice—Peter certainly did, wincing at the threat wasn't directed at him—Sirius is unfazed. "Moony, _mate_ ," he says lightly, "if you spent a day emulating me, at least you'd have _taste_."

Peter decides that a change of topic might be in order, before their bickering escalates and derails their tight schedule. "Moony, what'd Prongs do to you, specifically, to inspire, erm, y'know, such a complicated revenge?"

For although Sirius had been too delighted with Remus's mischievous impulse to question it at the time, Peter knows he's curious about the cause—they'd speculated about it more than once. And the diversion works: Remus's retort dies on his lips, his ears tinging pink. Sirius drops the trainer and walks toward the bathroom, straining to hear his answer.

"So?" prods Sirius when the former simply shrugs.

"Itching powder," says Remus, desperately hoping this will satisfy their curiosity.

It doesn't.

Sirius resumes his place against the door frame, but the Bubble-Head tings against the dark wood, propelling him forward. He readjusts his position, crossing his arms, and clears his throat. "And?"

"And _what_?"

"C'mon, Moony," presses Peter. "There's _got_ to be more to it."

"There is _not_."

"Bollocks!" shout Peter and Sirius in unison.

Remus sighs, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. Though the prospect of so thoroughly taking the piss out of Prongs undoubtedly appeals to them, his mates _are_ going out of their way to satiate his thirst for revenge. He supposes they ought to know _why_.

Besides, they aren't going to let it go, so he may as well get it over with.

" _Fine._ So… " He looks to Sirius. "Remember that magazine you gave me last month?"

"The _Quidditch Weekly_ I nicked from Prongs?"

"No…the _other_ one." Remus tugs at his collar.

"Ah, yes," says Sirius, wagging his eyebrows. "With the blonde? She's got a fan—"

"The very one," interrupts Remus before Sirius can finish that crass thought. "Anyway, the tosser lined the fold-out pages—"

"Centerfold," correct Sirius and Peter.

Remus ignores them, plowing on, " _Anyway_ , he lined the centerfold"—he shoots a sardonic glance at his snickering mates—"with tampered itching powder." He pauses, hoping they'll fill in the rest, only to meet a pair of blank, expectant stares.

The bastards are going to make him say it.

Sodding hell.

"Right. So… I was, perusingthe magazine. And…" He pauses again, choosing his next words very carefully. "Well, I suppose you could say…. Thing is… I was a bit… _distracted_..."

Peter erupts, launching into a tirade, "Wanking, Lupin? A _wanking_ story? Bad form, mate! Discussing the particulars of a wank session is a _direct_ violation of rule seventeen, a rule _you_ insisted on after Padf—"

"Do you want to hear the story or not?" says Remus wearily.

"Wormy, you _did_ ask him, and since it's part of the story, we'll make an exception," intervenes Sirius diplomatically. He nods to Remus, and though smirk on his face is undeniable, he says magnanimously, "Moony, please, continue."

" _Anyway,_ when I went to open the centerfold, the itching powder fell all over…well… _you know_ —"

" _Devious bastard_ ," gasps Peter, admiration evident in his voice. He claps a hand over his mouth, but a strangled giggle still escapes. Remus glares at him, and he clears his throat.

Sirius makes no attempt to disguise his amusement; his derisive laughs echo strangely in his inverted fishbowl.

"It is _not_ funny." Even Remus knows, however, had it been anyone _else's_ prick, that he would be laughing, too. Still, he can't help putting forth his case: "He made the powder impervious to water…and to magic! I had to go see Pomfrey! It didn't wash off for _days_ …"

But each revelation sends his mates into further hysterics: Peter collapses to the floor, a trembling, giggling mess, while Sirius doubles over, bracing a forearm on each knee, his entire body shaking with laughter. Resigned, Remus leans against the sink, crossing his arms, and stares at his watch, waiting for his idiot mates to rein themselves in.

It takes four and a half minutes.

Sirius manages first—sort of—finally straightening to clap Remus on the back. He manages to say, in between laughs, "It's a damned brilliant revenge, Moony, I'll give you that."

"It—is—quite—fitting," wheezes Peter, who can't quite pull himself together.

"Right," says Remus briskly. "Now you lot know, and we shall never—ever—speak of this again, on pain of hexes in your sleep. Got it?"

Still trembling with repressed laughter, both boys nod their assent. Remus, patience spent, and desperate to change the subject before his git mates can start up again, checks his watch. "Thirty-three minutes, seventeen seconds."

 _That_ , more than anything, steadies them a bit.

Peter stands as straight as he can manage wile rubbing the stitch in his side so Remus can resume work on his tie.

Sirius makes for Remus's bed,where stares at the abandoned trainer with suspicion. Touching it isn't an option; he shudders at the very thought. Hexing the shoe would destroy it—no loss _there_ —but they need the specs. Scourgifying might eliminate the odor.

 _Maybe._

He's fucked for time, so it had better.

Sirius nabs Prongs's Quidditch glove and then Summons the glasses. When they fly out of the shoe, he bats them back onto the bed like Bludgers, where they land with three soft thumps. After levitating the shoe to the trunk, he kicks the lid shut.

Scourgifying the specs leaves little pink bubbles on Moony's quilt, but that's Moony's problem, not his. He lifts the Bubble-Head Charm, leans forward, and gives the specs a tentative sniff.

"How are the glasses?" calls Remus, who's finishing up the final touches on Peter's tie.

"Perfect," says Sirius, relieved. "Can't smell anything."

"Not _that_ , git. How do they _look_?"

He scrutinizes a pair, turning them every which way. "Brilliant, down to the loose nose piece he's always fucking with."

Just then, Remus announces Peter's tie complete—they both let out a sigh of relief.

"Let's see it, Wormy," says Sirius, and Peter comes into the dorm so he can inspect Remus's handiwork.

Impeccable. _Again_.

" _Damn it_."

Remus glances at his watch and smirks at Sirius. "I've got time to fix yours, Padfoot—if you need me to."

Sirius scowls. " _Fuck off_."

#

"Moony?"

Remus slips on his shoes and checks his watch. "Twenty-four minutes, fourteen seconds."

" _Fuck_. Where's the git's cologne? 'S'not in the bathroom."

Remus rifles through James's nightstand, except for the bottom drawer, where James stores his most valuable possessions, and which he believes is secure from his mates. It's password protected, and booby trapped—three false password attempts set off a Dungbomb. His mates can usually guess the password, however, and Dungbomb detonations are par for the course for a Marauder. Remus considers wryly that the difference between a Dungbomb and Prongs's cologne is marginal. Still, better not to risk it. "Either of you know if the git's changed his password?"

Peter pauses from his double-check of the checklist to relay the password with a snicker.

"Double-oh seven?" repeats Remus. The drawer slides open.

Sirius, who's been hunched over Peter's shoulder, triple-checking his double-check, stands up. Forming his hands in the shape of a Muggle gun, he deadpans in a brilliant, horrifying imitation of fifth year James, "Name's Potter. James Potter."

Peter snorts. "Merlin, but he's an idiot."

"Yeah," says Sirius fondly, "he's _our_ idiot though."

While Remus grins at the imitation, he keeps his amusement in check. He'd learned the hard way, fourth year, that the contents of Prong's Top Secret Mischief Drawer were usually flammable and therefore warranted a cautious, steady hand.

"Nothing," he declares when his search proves fruitless.

Peter sets the book down and rummages through his own trunk. He emerges, grinning, a moment later, clutching a small, corked vial. "No fear, lads," he says proudly. "I poured some in a few days ago. What's protocol nine?"

"Always have a fail safe," says Sirius, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Wormy, you are officially promoted to Mister Brilliance." He plucks the vial from Peter's hand, but when he uncorks the stopper, a pungent odor fills the room. "Not sure, mate, whether I ought to hex you or thank you for such foresight."

Remus takes it next and reluctantly applies a dab behind each ear, grinning ruefully. "Ah, Hog's bollocks. My Amortentia."

"And yet," says Sirius in mock solemnity, "it _still_ smells better than your shoes."

" _Piss off_."

#

"Moony?"

"Damn you, Padfoot, I'm trying to ruin my hair."

"MOONY."

" _Fine_!" Remus pulls a hand out of his hair to check his wrist. "Seventeen minutes, twenty-seven seconds."

" _Fuck_."

"We're fine."

"Number twenty-three: mannerisms."

Peter grabs his Potions book off his side table and then tosses it toward Sirius's bed. "Starts on page double-oh seven." Sirius, amused, speaks the passcode onto page seven and, after it's rearranged itself, reads over the list.

"Out loud, Sirius," calls Remus from the bathroom.

"Run hand through hair. Lean against every wall. Saunter when walking. Adjust classes. Smirk." He frowns at Peter. "Pettigrew, this is dragon dung. You were supposed to be getting the _nuances_ —"

" _Starts_ on page seven, Black," replies Peter. "Don't you listen to me?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

"I've got a system. First page lists the Prongsisms our classmates will appreciate. Stuff that will piss Prongs off? Turn the page."

Sirius flips the page. "Devious, Wormy. I like it."

"I'm a Marauder for a _reason_ , you know—" says Peter indignantly as he threads his copy of James's belt through his trouser loops.

"I _know_ , Wormtail. You just make it so damn easy to take the piss out of you."

"Not as easy as Prongs," says Remus. "Let's hear them."

"Take up an egregious amount of table space. Lean forward in chair, tilt it sideways, fall over. Knock knees under the table. Fiddle with quill until it snaps."

"Is the twitching on there?" says Remus.

Sirius peruses the list. "Yeah."

"What about the fork and spoon thing?"

"Mhm," says Sirius absently, and then looks to Peter. "You know, Wormy, these aren't half bad."

"If we're going to do the thing—"

"We've got to do it properly," finishes Sirius, a hint of pride in his voice. "You _do_ listen to me."

"Only when I can't avoid it."

Remus exits the bathroom wearing James Potter's lopsided glasses and an equally lopsided frown. "How does that git get his glasses to sit so precariously at the end of his nose?"

Sirius, still reading over the list, shrugs absently and explains, "Worn out. They're 'bout a thousand years old—he needs new ones. Mum refuses to take him—says he's too old for her to baby him like that—and he refuses to go by himself. Argued 'bout it all summer."

"How do that with these?"

Sirius holds out his hand. "Here, I'll bend 'em."

"Break them, you mean," says Remus darkly. He hands them over all the same.

"No I won't."

"Yes you will—" says Peter, but at that moment the frames snap cleanly in half.

Sirius curses, mutters a hasty _Reparo_ , and hands them back to Remus. "Try lotion—that might make 'em slick."

"Lube?" offers Peter.

Sirius sniggers. "Oi! You could overpower Snivellus and rub them against his hair."

"Piss off," says Remus, who nevertheless coats the bridge of each pair with lotion.

"Don't forget to adjust yours incessantly," reminds Peter, "and clean 'em compulsively against your robes."

"Not going to be a problem." Sirius fidgets with his frames. " _Fuck,_ these are obnoxious."

"No, Padfoot," says Peter. "Push 'em up with your knuckle…not your middle finger."

Remus laughs. "Prongs will be do plenty of that today, if we piss him off enough…"

"He'd fucking better," says Sirius. "Or I dunno what we're going through the fuss for." He reads further down the page, to catch anything they've missed. "Pitch, Wormtail?"

"His voice—y'know, when Evans comes 'round."

Sirius and Remus erupt into laughter, and they take turns giving their own impressions of James, offering critiques and suggestions to the others for improvement, until they can each do passable imitation of "Alright, Evans?"—or enough to get the point across.

"Is doodling in the margins of our notes on the list?" asks Remus as he digs through his trunk for the peacock quills.

Peter cringes. "No. I _know_ he does it all the bloody time, but I can't draw for shite, so I left it off."

"Unacceptable, Wormtail," says Sirius. "You've got to do the doodling—just write 'Evans' in the margin or something, alright? That's probably what Prongs probably doodles anyway."

Remus pops his head over the lid of his trunk look at Sirius. "You think?"

"What the hell else would he always be scratching out so we can't see? Oi, Wormy, where's the rest of the Evans stuff?"

"Next page is Evanisms and, erm, other questionable items—some might be out of bounds."

"Does such a thing exist?"

"You be the judge," says Peter, grunting as he tugs a snitch-covered sock up over his knee.

Sirius's eyes brighten with delight as they scan the page. "Oh, _fuck_."

Remus comes over to Sirius and bends over, peering over his shoulder. "We are _absolutely_ doing these."

"Even number seven?" asks Peter tentatively.

"Damn," say both boys, and then, "yes."

"Alright, you tell him, when he wants to take the piss out of _me_ for a day," says Peter darkly, "that _I_ objected…"

"Grow a pair, Pete," says Sirius, and Remus thumps him on the head before returning to his trunk. Peter ignores the barb, asking instead about item fifteen.

Sirius answers with a long, low whistle. "Well, I can't partake in that one, as you well know. You lot can—if you dare."

"What is it?" asks Remus.

Sirius, bound to silence by an Unbreakable Vow taken third year, mouths 'it' to Remus.

"The _fuck_ thing?"

"No," says Peter, who refused to take the Unbreakable Vow, despite James's threat to Oblivate him. James _had_ tried to Oblivate him, actually—he and Remus both—and failed. Even so, some things are below the belt. Peter says, simply, "Quack, quack."

"Oh." Remus winces, remembering with a guilty conscience his own role in the incident-that-shall-not-be-named. " _Oh_."

"Your call, Moony," says Peter, "this's _your_ revenge."

He doesn't hesitate. " _No_ , that's too far. Some things are sacred, even for us."

Eager to change the subject from that disastrous, pyrotechnic, soggy, night, Peter produces a list for his mates' inspection.

"Deer puns?" questions Sirius.

"Yes. Thought a reference sheet would be handy."

"Hart," says Sirius, "Deerly. Doe/do. Buck you/fuck you. Stag. Staggeringly. Try to drop 'rack' into conversation."

"Nice." Remus nods to Peter. "Obvious, but classic."

"Ugulately? Wormtail, what in the hell is ungulately?"

"Ungulate, Padfoot—hooved animals," says Peter, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

"How do you even _know_ these things?"

"How d'you _not_?"

Remus cuts in, "Back to the list, mates. Evans things—is he still insisting they're just mates?"

"Yeah," says Peter, with a snort. "Said as much just last week."

"Idiots, both of them," says Sirius, scoffing as he reads the list. "I'm only interested in Evans insomuch that it will piss Prongs off."

"Fourth down, lovely touch," adds Remus, who in that moment has the misfortune to glance at his watch. "Fuck. Nine minutes, fifty-three seconds. _Fuck_."

"We're _fine_ , Moony," says Sirius casually. "Just cool your fucking cauldron. We've got too much to do, now, so we'll wing the Evans bit. Just act like prats when she comes 'round. That should do it, yeah?"

They work frenetically, sorting out last minute arrangements.

"Roll your sleeves, lads. McGonagall'll us to roll 'em down in 'bout five seconds," reasons Peter, "but then we'll _all_ have to roll 'em down—not just Prongs."

Sirius passes around James's favourite blue ink, to smudge on their fingertips.

Remus panics when he can't remember where he's stashed the albino peacock quills—Prong's particular favorite. Sirius finds them crammed inside his pillow. They're a bit bent, sure, though suitable enough for their purposes.

Peter won't say how he's managed it, no matter how the others prod, but he produces three nicked Snitches and hands them out. "They're not activated or anything."

"'S'alright," says Sirius. "It'll be enough to toss them around like they are. Where are we, Moo—"

"Four minutes, fifty-five seconds," says a flustered Remus. "We can dodge him if we nip breakfast in the kitchens."

"We're good to go then, yeah?"

His mates stand frozen, staring at him incredulously.

"What?"

"It's just…" starts Peter, who trails off. "Moony?"

Remus is more to the point. "What in the bloody fuck is wrong with your hair?"

"It's _just_ like his," says Sirius. "I just didn't have to Transfigure it black like you wankers did."

Remus shakes his head and takes a step toward Sirius. "Padfoot, that isn't _nearly_ messy enough to pass for Prongs's hair."

Wormtail closes in from the left. "If our hair has to emulate that rat's nest, so does yours."

Peter and Remus overpower him, tackling him to the ground. It's all grunts and boyish laughs and sharp elbows until Sirius emerges, victorious.

A hollow victory, for his hair is sufficiently ruffled—ruined, really. It's for a greater cause, Sirius reminds himself. He imagines the look on James's face as he sees them walking into Transfiguration. With great pain, he resists the urge to flatten it down.

It costs several precious minutes to readjust ties, straighten belt buckles, re-roll shirt sleeves, and find Remus's glasses, and Peter's right shoe.

Finally, the boys crowd before the bathroom mirror to admire their handiwork: three black, chaotic, Transfigured sets of hair; identical wire-rimmed specs askew on three different noses; gold and scarlet Gryffindor ties, elaborately knotted with varying degrees of skill; six highly polished, uglier than a troll's backside shoes that will never be worn again; three identical, lopsided smirks.

Three personalized copies of James Potter stare back at them. Or at least the important bits. Or at least as much as they can get away with without breaking any school rules.

They've checked.

"We are the worst best mates a bloke could ask for," says Remus proudly.

"There's going to be hell to pay for it," says Peter, his voice is too buoyant to take the warning to heart.

"Going to be brilliant though." Sirius voices what they're all thinking, and then asks a final time: "Moony?"

Remus checks his watch. "Right, lads. It's time. Operation: Fuck with Prongs commences….now."


End file.
